


Fragments Shored Against My Ruins

by Fire_Sign, PhryneFicathon



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-02-23 15:09:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13192722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhryneFicathon/pseuds/PhryneFicathon
Summary: When Phryne Fisher’s plane disappears, her family in Melbourne are left to pick up the pieces.





	1. Prologue: Quando fiam uti chelidon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PromisesArePieCrust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PromisesArePieCrust/gifts).



> Fic and section titles both come from T. S. Eliot’s [The Waste Land](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47311/the-waste-land).

### Prologue: _Quando fiam uti chelidon_

 

The Thursday after Phryne Fisher flew away, the end of Jack's shift was marked by a firm knock at the door.

"Doctor MacMillan!" he exclaimed, looking up. "Is this about the Dean case? I could have sent a constable—”

The doctor raised her hand to stop him.

"I sent the report over an hour ago," she said. "This is a personal matter. Do you have whiskey?"

Jack nodded to the bottle and tumblers on a shelf to his right; Mac expertly plucked and poured and pushed one tumbler across his desk before taking a seat across from him, dangling a leg over the arm of the visitor's chair.

"I've had a telegraph," she said. "From the Dutch East Indies. Apparently there’s incentive to be ahead of schedule. She wants to know what your plans are."

There was no point asking who 'she' was; Jack took a drink as he contemplated his answer. Setting the glass aside, he opened a drawer of his desk, extracting the ticket within.

"It leaves early next month," he said, handing it over.

Mac looked at it, an unreadable expression on her face.

"Something the matter, doctor?"

Mac looked up. "Just considering the likelihood of Phryne's return," she said. "I had rather hoped that you being here would weigh Melbourne in her favour."

"I'll be back soon enough," he replied. "I have no intention of giving up my position, and I can't be following her around the globe on a regular basis."

Mac tilted her head, and Jack realised the presumptions in his statement—that this thing between them, so tenuous and new, would last; that she would come to him when he could not go to her; that somehow he held the power of persuasion over Phryne Fisher. The idea was laughable in so many ways, and yet Jack felt the certainty of it all the same. He finished his drink.

"She'll come back," he said, then smiled wryly. "If nothing else, she has a soft spot for Mr. Butler's cake."

Mac laughed, handing back the ticket.

"Never underestimate the power of baked goods," she replied, then stood up. "Now come on, we may as well get dinner. I'm under strict orders from Phryne to make sure you eat."

Jack rolled his eyes, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "And here I was planning to pine away."

Mac laughed again. "She'd never forgive me."

Jack stood, grabbing his hat and coat. "To dinner then, lest we invoke the wrath of Miss Fisher from afar."

———

Four days later Mac was back, a furrow in her brow. Jack set his pen aside, concerned.

“I haven’t heard back from her,” said Mac.

“Phryne?”

Mac nodded. “I telegraphed her at the next stop on her itinerary and didn’t get a reply, so I sent one further ahead.”

“Perhaps she was rerouted?” Jack suggested. “If she flies the same way she drives, you might have just missed her.”

“She was waiting for this response,” Mac said deliberately, and Jack remembered their previous discussion.

“Perhaps she didn’t like what it contained,” Jack said in mock self-deprecation. “I imagine she’s not often in the habit of being pursued quite so far.”

Mac rolled her eyes. “The false modesty doesn’t suit you, Jack. She’s…” Mac seemed to flounder for a moment, an unexpected sight. “I don’t know. It’s not like her.”

“It’s only been a few days, I’m sure she just found a murder.”

Mac smiled at that.

“She does have a knack for it. You must be mad to follow her; I’ve decided that our holidays will be kept strictly separate from now on.”

“A wise decision if ever there was one,” Jack said, then glanced at the clock. “My shift is over, would you care for a drink?”

The doctor nodded, retrieving his tumblers and whiskey once again. They were both silent as he poured them each a generous serving; she was not as concerned as she had been when she’d entered his office, but there was still a palpable tension in her posture. She didn’t sit this time, taking her glass and moving towards the mantel in an ostensible examination of its contents.

“Did she ever tell you that’s how we met?” she asked, attention focused on a twenty year old racing trophy; it was not that interesting. “Murder, I mean.”

“Uh, no,” Jack said. He’d heard many stories of their exploits, but he’d presumed they had been friends since childhood and Phryne had never suggested differently.

“It was after Janey and before the inheritance,” Mac explained. “We knew each other by sight before then—I’d actually known Janey a little, because she used to come around the bakery for her mother from time to time—but we’d never really spoken. There was an older man I delivered bread to, and by coincidence Phryne would do odd jobs for him as well. He’d travelled in his youth, and she saw him as a window into a world she’d never see. She’d cook his dinner or mend his clothes for a cup of weak tea and a story.”

Jack could picture it all too well, a scruffy young Phryne finding her way around the limitations of her circumstances; a skill that continued to serve her well, even if the particulars varied.

“I take it it only fed into her wanderlust?” he asked.

Mac laughed. “Margaret used to say that they should have apprenticed her to a travelling salesman, it might have cured her of her wandering ways.”

“Knowing Miss Fisher, that seems unlikely.”

“She countered with a detailed plan to join of Tuereg people of the Sahara,” Mac smiled. “Her mother was not impressed.”

Jack chuckled and swallowed his whiskey, refilling the glass.

“And the murder?”

“The man—his name was Harry—woke up one morning to find a man dead on his doorstep, having clearly been in some kind of altercation. The police were determined to prove his guilt.”

“A fact Miss Fisher no doubt took with equanimity.”

“I believe she kicked the constable,” Mac said with a smirk. “Then she set about proving Harry’s innocence. She interviewed me twice and was eventually able to prove that he’d been asleep the whole time, and the victim had been attacked after a long evening at the pub where he insulted half the room. Never did know for certain who did the deed, but it wasn’t Harry. We got along remarkably well after that.”

“On behalf of my profession, I can only apologise for the failures of the constabulary and toast the friendship that sprung from it.”

Mac raised her glass in a toast.

“To lifelong friendships,” she said, “even if one party is determined to drive me mad.”

———

Jack had almost forgotten the situation entirely—his attentions were occupied by attempts to clear the station backlog before he set sail in a few weeks, an endeavor that was both altruism and distraction—when Mac arrived back at Jack’s office a week later, more flustered than ever.

“Doctor—”

She held up her hand to stop his greeting.

“I telegraphed Margaret, who informed me that Phryne and Henry boarded a boat in Rangoon and are on their way to London.”

“There you are, then. Mystery solved.”

“Mystery begun,” Mac replied. “There’s no direct boat from Rangoon—they would have to charter one to a port city, either pushing on to India or doubling back to Siam. I did get the ship name though, and the dates align.”

“Then where’s the mystery?”

“I sent a message to her on the ship with no response, and the one I sent to Henry… well, look!”

She pulled a paper from her pocket and shoved it towards him. Jack took it, uncreasing the message with careful fingers.

 

> PHRYNE NOT HERE (STOP) MADE ALT ARRANGEMENTS FOR MY RETURN (STOP) HAD PLANS IN AUS (STOP)

“Odd,” he said, brow furrowed. “She didn’t message you about these alternate plans?”

“Absolutely not. And quite frankly, I can’t see what would have dragged her back to Australia aside from you, and you were sailing after her.”

The boat’s departure was not for another week and a half, and the past tense did not go unnoticed. For all his focus on evidence and routine and rules, Jack had a healthy appreciation for his intuition, which was currently informing him that something was terribly wrong.

“What, precisely, did you say in your reply to her last telegraph?”

“That you were coming, name and sailing date of your ship, and possibly a comparison of you to a lovesick puppy.”

Jack arched an eyebrow, and Mac shrugged.

“I wasn’t wrong,” was her defense, and he had to concede. He regarded the paper for another moment, thinking.

“I hate to suggest it, but do you think Lord Fisher could be lying?”

“I can’t see why he would,” Mac said, “though there’s very rarely a reason that makes sense to anyone but himself in his schemes, so I can’t rule out the possibility. I’ve messaged every mutual friend we have between here and Rangoon, and none have heard from her. Nobody at home has received a message, unless you’ve gotten one you failed to mention?” Jack shook his head, and Mac continued. “If she was headed straight home she should have arrived days ago. Phryne can be impulsive, but this… this is uncharacteristically callous of her.”

The uncomfortable sensation in Jack’s gut concurred.

“I’m sure she’s just off gallivanting,” he said, but his heart wasn’t in it; the knowing gaze Mac levelled at him let him know he was fooling precisely nobody.

“I hope you’re right, inspector. But all the same, I believe it might be time to call in Prudence Stanley.”

Jack nodded. “She’ll no doubt be irritated that we invoked the dreaded aunt, but I fear you may be right.”

———

Prudence Stanley arrived at Jack’s office early the following morning, ready to move mountains. She steamed into the room, looking frighteningly reminiscent of Phryne herself, and took a seat in one of the visitor’s chairs.

“Doctor MacMillan has explained the situation, inspector?” she asked imperiously, back ramrod straight and hands clutching her handbag.

“Would you care for a drink, Mrs. Stanley?” Jack offered, attempting to find his equilibrium.

“I would care to hear what, precisely, you intend to do about my niece’s disappearance.”

“I’m not sure what I could—”

“I meant the police force, inspector,” she said. “It would hardly be appropriate for you to go haring after her.”

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “There is no reason for the Victorian Constabulary to invoke jurisdiction. Her last point of contact was not even in the country, never mind the state.”

“She resides here, and was returning here,” Mrs. Stanley argued, clearly anticipating the objection.

“According to one rather unreliable source. Other sources said she was headed to London.”

Mrs. Stanley sniffed once more.

“I came to you, inspector, because I was under the impression you would take my concerns seriously. I will go over your head if you insist.”

There was very little he could do, stuck behind a desk with no authority, no recourse. This would be a game of politics and connections, a game he had very much rejected after the war. He still knew some players though, men on the ground who might be of some use. He picked up a pen and began making some notes. Men he’d served with, or gone to school with, or had met through Rosie, and with whom he was still friendly.

“I can give you names,” he said, looking up at Mrs. Stanley. “Old connections abroad that might have some pull when asked by Mrs. Prudence Stanley,” he paused. “But I have no authority here, however much I would wish it.”

“I have connections of my own,” Mrs. Stanley said firmly, her mouth twisting; she visibly softened after a moment. “But I would appreciate any help you can provide.”

Jack nodded. “Let me make some telephone calls. I doubt my friends are in as high places as yours, but they are good men with some sway. I can telephone you this afternoon once I have heard from them.”

Mrs. Stanley nodded, then rose from her seat.

“I will wait for your call then, inspector,” she said.

She turned and headed for the door, an undeniable and unrelenting force of nature.

“I am,” he said, and Mrs. Stanley paused. “I am concerned.”

It was the first time he had given voice to the fact, and he waited for her rebuke; she remained silent and still for some time, still facing the door.

“I know, Inspector Robinson,” she finally said, every year of her advanced age in her tone. “So am I.”

———

“Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

Jack looked up from his desk to see Doctor MacMillan in the doorway again; it was becoming a familiar sight. He blinked and set his pen neatly aside, then shifted the report in front of him into the file.

“Will the good news help?” he asked.

“We’ve gotten a message from a friend at an earlier stop,” Mac said. “Phryne was planning to continue to London at that point. The plane was giving her a bit of trouble—long-haul flying with no real preparation was foolish, even if she keeps the machine in tip-top shape. There was talk about catching a boat from Burma if it continued, which aligns with Rangoon.”

“So Lord Fisher was fabricating her return to Melbourne?”

Mac pushed off the door frame and moved into the office, taking a seat; Jack could see the drawn tightness around her eyes and mouth. He was fairly certain his own expression was much the same.

“Honestly, Jack, I don’t know. There’s still the fact that she didn’t respond to the telegraph, and Mrs. Stanley’s connections say that there is no Phryne Fisher on the passenger’s manifest.”

“That is the bad news, I take it?” he asked.

“No, the bad news is that it’s been, what, three weeks since anyone has heard from her?”

Jack nodded, having suspected this was the direction of Mac’s thoughts. “And we’re wasting days trying to draw connections from here, between the communication limits of telegraphs and the time it takes for a reply to arrive. How are Mrs. Stanley’s endeavors coming along?”

“She is currently in the process of convincing the Australian government that a full scale search of the Bay of Bengal is in their best interests.”

“Slow going?”

Mac shrugged. “Surprisingly quick, given government standards. Which means they should launch sometime next year.”

Chuckling despite himself, Jack did some math. They needed someone on the ground, someone who knew Phryne, could make a reasonable guess at her next steps, knew with whom and where she might stay in a given port. His jaw clenched as he opened a desk drawer, extracting his steamer ticket for two days hence.

“This should be faster,” he said, holding out the ticket.

“Jack?”

“It will be easy enough to have it put in your name,” he said. “And I’m certain that between Mrs. Stanley and myself indefinite leave can be granted. My chief commissioner isn’t particularly wild about me or my connection with Miss Fisher, but he knows he owes me quite a bit for his current position.” He smiled, for what felt like the first time in days. “And I have other connections if not. If I’m going to call in a favour, I can’t think of a better reason.”

“Can’t you?” Mac asked knowingly.

For a moment he could remember the buoyant hope of the airfield, the scent of the grass and the sound of the idling plane, her smooth descent from the cockpit to meet him, the way she smiled…. He hadn’t allowed himself time to think of that moment in weeks.

“If wishes were horses…” he trailed off. “Just bring her home, doctor. For everyone’s sake.”

———

A case and the resulting paperwork kept Jack from seeing Mac off at the docks, but she sent a telegraph to his office the following morning. The message was short and blunt, informing him that she had made the boat, to message immediately if information arose, and an admonishment to take care until she returned. He filed the paper and returned to the large map that was taking up his spare moments between cases—Phryne’s initial itinerary traced with red string strung between pins marking confirmed stops. She’d been ahead of schedule and on course in the first ten days or so, then nothing.

He had a stack of atlases and travel guides and itineraries, looking for probable alternate routes and destinations and passing the information on to Mac and Mrs. Stanley in turns. There was no denying that tempers were beginning to fray; there were only so many ports, so many telegraphs, so many ways they could pretend that things were fine. A state that was not limited to the small circle; Collins was well aware of the nature of the visitors traipsing into Jack’s office at all hours, and he appeared to be obscuring the specifics from his new bride. Unfortunately for his senior constable, the new Mrs. Collins had spent the last year with Phryne Fisher and could sniff out a lie at twenty paces.

“Hugh!”

It was lunchtime and the smell of Mr. Butler’s gratin drifted into Jack’s office; he could just make out Collins behind the desk, standing a little straighter as he leant over to kiss his wife’s cheek.

“Is the inspector in?” Dot asked sweetly. “I’m just hoping he’s heard from Miss Fisher—I haven’t had a telegraph in weeks.”

“Uh, Dottie, he’s— not in! Very busy, now that Miss Fisher is gone. Away. Now that Miss Fisher is away. Not gone. Of course she’s not gone.”

Jack wondered whether he should take the young man aside and gently inform him that lying to one’s wife almost never ended well, and should be reserved for things like birthday and Christmas gifts, and possibly truly hideous home decor. Mrs. Collins seemed the type to be excessively fond of lace. But it was too late to intervene this time—he could hear the chill in the young woman’s voice.

“Hugh Collins, you are a Catholic now. Lying is a sin, and I won’t have your immortal soul on my conscience. I want the truth—where is Inspector Robinson, and what are you hiding from me?”

Collins murmured a reply that Jack couldn’t quite catch, but it was clearly loud enough for Mrs. Collins. What followed was a blazing row about honesty and marriage and exactly where Hugh Collins could sleep that night—when Mrs. Collins drew a deep breath to continue her angry, though understandable, tirade, Jack had to intervene; he stood and headed towards the door of his office.

“This is a police station,” he said, his voice calm and even.

“He was in his _office_?” Dot shouted at her husband, then turned to Jack with a look of determination that would make lesser men quake. “Good afternoon, inspector. I’ve brought gratin.”

Jack shook his head, and gestured Miss Fisher’s companion into his office. Once she was inside, he succinctly brought her up to date on events; Dot immediately asked to study the map, frowning as she did so.

“It doesn’t make sense,” she said.

“No,” Jack agreed.

“I thought she hadn’t sent a message because of…”

“Your new marriage?”

Dot smiled softly. “The thought did cross my mind.”

“Miss Fisher was genuinely happy for you, Dot,” Jack said. “Her silence is most concerning.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “What can I do to help?”

Dot’s presence was a breath of fresh air, but it was not enough to lift the entire weight from his shoulders. Nine days after Mac had left Melbourne, a message arrived.

 

> PHRYNE IN SURABAYA SEPT 19 (STOP) NEXT KNOWN STOP ATAMBUA (STOP) NO RECORD BUT WILL ARRIVE TOMORROW TO INVESTIGATE (STOP)

It was the first real news they had had in six weeks. He stared at the message until darkness fell, fingering a tumbler of whiskey he had poured but not drunk. When the clock struck the hour, he stirred, downing his drink; the glass made a quiet thunk as it hit his desk. He marked Surabaya on the map.

———

The messages came almost daily after that, delivered to his office sometime around noon, the shortness of the telegraphs echoing Mac’s own blunt tones—a witness to an argument in Rangoon explained why Phryne’s plans had changed; a friend in Surabaya had spoken with her on her return journey and had a copy of her new flight plan; an airfield attendant remembered her leaving the following morning; she had never arrived at the next stop; no other airfield within flight distance had seen her or the airplane. Mac moved so quickly, determined to follow in her friend’s path, that Jack could rarely send a telegraph in reply; he drafted messages of his own, left stacked in a drawer of his desk, because screaming into the void was better than remaining silent.

Prudence Stanley stopped by on occasion, first to thank him for the connections and later to update him on the investigations abroad, but her visits were short and unilluminating; the formidable society matron did not take to the surroundings of a police station with the same ease her niece had. Bert would come with her, lingering outside Jack’s office door with a stoic expression; Cec never entered the station.

Jack spent hours in his office, clearing his backlog and re-examining old cases. He couldn’t help but wonder what Phryne would say if she was there; no doubt she’d tilt her head and tap her finger on the page, drawing his attention to some overlooked detail that would either unravel the whole case or lead to some convoluted plot to do so. It was a foolish daydream, and painful, but it allowed him to pretend that he did not look up at every sound in the hopes of another telegraph delivery.

His constables had taken to avoiding his office whenever possible; he overheard Collins playing guard dog one afternoon and pinched the bridge of his nose, but let it pass unremarked. Let them think him foul-tempered or busy; either was preferable to the atrophying, indeterminable nature of waiting he found himself subject to.

Even Mrs. Collins had lost some of her usual determination eventually; her visits to deliver news from her own inquiries into Phryne’s social diaries, hoping that one friend or another had heard from her, faded until she only stopped by to drop off food and retreat once more.

———

Mac returned in late November, unannounced and unexpected, coming directly to Jack’s office from the ship that had brought her home; it had been over two months since anyone had heard from Phryne.

“Mac!” he said, standing, his hands flexing absently. “I didn’t—How was the journey?”

She didn’t reply, just crossed the room to grab his whiskey and tumblers. Depositing them on his desk, she met his eyes and sighed heavily.

“I know you don’t drink on the job, Jack, but I think we’ll both need this.”

He had hoped—against reason, logic, and experience—that the doctor’s investigations had been more successful than her short messages had conveyed, but clearly it was in vain.

“It’s my day off,” he said, sinking into his chair. “I just couldn’t…”

He’d had nowhere else to be, and he couldn’t bear the silence of his empty house. He could have gone for a ride, caught up with a mate, gone for a pint, visited his favourite bookstore, spent the afternoon on the beach… but instead he found himself in his office again, waiting for news, as if the four familiar walls would provide answers to mysteries hitherto unresolved.

Mac’s hands shook as she poured the whiskey, and she took a deep gulp from her tumbler and topped it back up before taking a seat.

“There was a storm,” she said. “Between Surabaya and Atambua.”

Fuck.

A million questions sprung to mind—when, where, was she certain—but all he could do was think how fragile the airplane had been, how a machine that could have flown her to England in a matter of days could have been easily obliterated by one meteorological event, how he’d convinced himself that Phryne Fisher’s invulnerability extended to aviatorial pursuits, hadn’t even questioned the safety of such a flight. That was who Phryne was, why he loved—

“Unexpected?” he asked, as if it mattered. Perhaps it did, for his own peace of mind; it would be one thing for it to be an unpredictable twist of fate, another for it to be a deliberate choice.

“Came out of nowhere, by all accounts,” Mac said, voice hoarse. Her attention was held by the whiskey in her glass. “Based on flight speeds, she would have been over open water when it hit. Mrs. Stanley has convinced the Dutch government to search the area again, but…” her mouth twisted, and the usually composed doctor seemed to fall in on herself, “but they are looking for debris.”

The image was all too easy to conjure, had haunted his dreams for some time, dismissed as fanciful imaginings.

“Have they found any?” he asked.

If they hadn’t, there was always a chance; even as he thought it he knew he was wrong, that denial always came first, that eventually this panicked attempt to protect himself from the truth he’d avoided for weeks would fade and he would be left with the rest—anger at her for being the woman she was; loss, not only of the things they never had but of everything she had stood for; doubt, bargaining, pleading to an unrelenting God that it was a mistake. But for now he held on to the lack of debris, the uncertainty.

“It’s a big ocean,” Mac said.

Her expression was of a woman who had been through denial and come out the other side, exhaustion and grief evident in every line of her face; of a woman who had searched land, sea, and air for her oldest friend and found nothing; of a woman who had lost so often that it was second nature and still never easier. And so it was, 11 weeks and 3 days after Phryne Fisher flew away, that Jack Robinson realised she wasn’t coming home.


	2. Chapter One: “When will I be as the swallow?”

### Chapter One: _When will I be as the swallow?_

 

She stood outside the cottage, eyes focused on the red-painted wood of the door; her fingers traced the small lump of metal in her coat pocket, then she took a breath and knocked.

"Door's open, Ada!" came a voice—his voice—from inside.

She knocked again.

There were footsteps, then the turn of the handle, and she saw him. He froze, just for a moment, and the ridiculous urge to flee filled her. Then he was on her, his larger hands cradling her head as he tilted it up to kiss, his tongue in her mouth, a gentle and irresistible tug through the doorway as he kissed her like it was his last moments on earth.

"How?" he rasped when they paused, his hands still in her hair, his mouth against hers.

"Crashed plane, missionaries, supply boat every four months or so," she murmured, seeking his mouth again. "I, of course, missed the previous one by days."

He gave a choked, incredulous laugh and she yanked him closer, his jacket in her fists as she kissed him. They shifted, stumbling until her back was against the wall, her hands to his chest, the tension coiled in him until his body was shaking, teeth and hunger and the scent of his soap overwhelming her until she had to pull away to catch her breath. She could feel his heartbeat against her hand, wild and erratic and so in cadence with her own. She blinked away tears, forcing herself to release her hold on his jacket. His dinner jacket.

"Were you... going out?" she asked, attempting to smooth the silk, not meeting his eyes.

“Nowhere important,” he said, shaking his head and moving to kiss her again.

She shifted to avoid his lips, though it pained her to do it.

“You were waiting for someone,” she pointed out.

“Work dinner, escort for the evening, I can cancel,” he summarised, a thumb coming up to stroke her cheekbone; her eyes drifted shut at his touch. “Phryne…”

She’d come to him as soon as her plane had landed—a government service for the daughter of a baron, once she’d found her way back to British territory—without thinking. Hadn’t gone home, hadn’t telephoned, hadn’t even changed into a more suitable outfit; had essentially thrown herself at him, desperate to see him again. And now his thumb was on her cheek and his chest was beneath her palm and she wanted nothing more than to draw him ever closer and flee at the same time.

“You didn’t know I was coming home?” she asked.

“How could I know?” he replied, voice raw. “I thought… we thought you were dead.”

That wasn’t right. She’d been so careful in leaving telegraphs for everyone, since her flight left before a telegraph office was open. She opened her eyes, taking him in; he’d lost weight, she realised, and there were new creases in his brow. His eyes were the same though; piercing, hungry, dark with a depth of love she’d never imagined wanting.

“Nobody knew?” she asked. “They didn’t get my message?”

“What message?”

“Telegraphs. Days ago.That I was—oh god, Aunt Prudence. And Dot! And my house—”

Suddenly the reality of her situation came crashing down; she hadn’t returned home, but there was no guarantee she had a home to go to. Her vision swam and the roof of her mouth tingled as she attempted to breathe deeply. His hands lowered, finding the small of her back as he guided her to a small parlour to the right. She took a seat and he moved away just long enough to pour her a whiskey, then crouched before her.

“Your home is fine,” he said, his voice low and steady, his hand taking hers. “You left six months of salary and nobody could… nobody could bear to do otherwise. Your aunt will—Mrs. Stanley will be relieved by your safe return. Your friends…” his voice warbled there, and she squeezed his hand. He gave her a crooked half smile, and it was if the last air in her lungs was gone. “The only people lamenting your return will be Melbourne’s criminal population, Miss Fisher. And even half of them can be persuaded.”

She laughed, perilously close to crying, and shook her head.

“Jack Robinson…”

Nothing she could say would suffice, so she kissed him again, her fingers spiking through his hair, her lips tender, breaking apart just to press her forehead against his as she closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

“I have to go,” she said, the words almost physically painful. “If nobody else knows…”

“Of course,” he agreed; his thumb was stroking her knee absently, a sensation at once familiar and new. “You’re welcome to use my telephone, or…”

There was a knock on the door, and Jack shook his head.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” he said, then motioned to a corner behind her. “The telephone is on the desk.”

He stood up; she sat in the chair for a moment longer, hearing the door open and a woman’s voice greeting him warmly. There was a hushed discussion, Jack clearly apologising for the change of plans; Phryne strained her ears, trying to make out the words.

“Father expects you to be there,” said the woman. “He won’t be pleased—”

A rumbled, indecipherable response from Jack, then the woman laughed.

“On your head be it,” she said. “You know how precarious your position is right now, after… well, at the moment.”

It felt like a punch in the gut. Phryne could make a damned good guess what the ‘after’ meant; she knew Jack’s nature, his investigative tenacity and his loyalty. Of course he would have gone after her in whatever manner was available to him, and it seemed to be causing him no end of grief. This would not do.

Pulling herself together, she stood and headed into the hallway. Jack’s date was there, a beautiful blonde woman about his age, wearing a rather divine fur stole and a kind smile. For a moment Phryne felt absurdly underdressed, in clothes that weren’t even her own and not even her customary red lipstick. Thankfully, it was not a sensation that lasted long. She stepped forward, extending her hand.

“Hello,” she said. “Phryne Fisher.”

A half-beat as the woman processed this information, then took Phryne’s offered handshake.

“Ada,” the woman replied. “Ada Rickman.”

Jack seemed frozen between them.

“Miss Fisher—”

“Was just leaving, Jack,” Phryne said firmly. He looked stricken, and she reached up to brush imagined lint from his jacket. “I’ll no doubt be on the telephone all evening, and you have another commitment.”

“Phryne…”

She was staring at his lips, and forced herself to look up to his eyes instead.

“You said you had a work—”

“It’s not important.”

“Of course it is,” she said, forcing lightness into her voice. “No doubt an expected guest is more enticing than an unexpected one.”

He huffed a laugh and shook his head, his hand on her elbow and his thumb stroking her through the blouse.

“I believe it was the other way around, Miss Fisher.”

“Absolutely not, inspector,” she said, her voice warbling slightly. This really was an inconvenient number of emotions. “But I would hate for you to neglect your social commitments, and I really won’t be terribly good company this evening. If I find out who made a mistake at the telegraph office…”

He tilted his head as he looked at her, and she was filled with the unsettling sensation that no amount of bravado could hide the truth from him. It made him an effective investigator, but it wasn’t particularly welcome at the moment; she had been so focused on getting home that she had not allowed herself to imagine what was waiting for her, and this news about the missing telegraphs flew up another obstacle.

“Are you certain that you’ll be…?”

“I’m fine, Jack. I just… need to focus. Please. Go to dinner. Enjoy yourself. I’ll telephone you tomorrow,” she promised, and at his uncertain look she stroked his lapel again, smoothing the silk. “I will. First thing.”

His eyes searched hers and she felt her composure slipping.

“Phryne—”

“I’m not going to disappear again,” she promised. “You’ll come for tea?”

She hated the uncertainty in her voice, but he smiled—that tiny little smile that lingered in the corners of his lips she had missed so much—and it was enough.

“I’m going to ring for a ride while you get ready,” she said.

“We’re happy to drive you,” Ada offered; Phryne had almost forgotten the other woman was there.

She shook her head.

“I would hate to impose. I’ll just be a moment,” she said, returning to the parlour.

Taking a steadying breath, she crossed the room and picked up the telephone receiver, and asked the operator to connect her to a taxi. She had a feeling this would be only the beginning of her evening.

———

Jack retreated to the lavatory, splashing his face with water before combing his hair back into some semblance of order. He could still feel the heat of her fingers against his skin, the pinpricks of her fingernails as he kissed her, telling him that she was real. She was there. Alive. Gloriously, gloriously alive.

He regarded himself in the mirror again, finding the same face that had looked back at him half an hour before. It seemed strange that such a seismic shift could go externally unmarked, but that had been her way from the beginning—an implicit challenge that piqued his interest but was never said; a whirlwind of desire and vivacity that left nothing but the lingering scent of Jicky in her wake; a kiss on an airfield and words that lingered in the air. There had been no telegraphs, no letters before she disappeared; the only tangible evidence of her existence had been the empty space in a box which had once held a young boy’s tin badge, and the corresponding ache in his chest.

Washing and drying his hands to remove the small amount of pomade on his fingertips, he left the lavatory and returned to the parlour. Ada was sitting in the chair Phryne had so recently filled, an eyebrow arched. Jack looked around the room for Phryne herself and found nothing. She remained as ephemeral as ever, and despite himself he wondered if she’d ever really been there. Madness could not be excluded.

“Her cab arrived,” Ada said, watching him intently. “I almost thought she wouldn’t go, the way she looked back. Does Mac know she’s alive?”

He blinked twice.

“I didn’t—I didn’t know until she knocked. I thought it was you and…” he hadn’t cried after her disappearance, hadn’t allowed the despair to swallow him; damn if he was going to start now. He studied his knuckles. “There were telegraphs, apparently, that never arrived.”

“Mac is going to be furious she’s in Sydney,” Ada remarked.

“Phryne will no doubt have words about her best friend’s faithlessness,” Jack replied, quirking a smile despite himself.

Ada snorted. “No more than she’ll have to say about yours. Running off with the deputy commissioner’s daughter the minute she turns her back.”

Startled, Jack looked at his friend. “No, she wouldn’t…no.”

“Relax, Robinson,” Ada laughed. “Nobody could doubt your feelings for her. It might make for a slightly awkward conversation—‘Phryne, darling, you beautiful creature that has so bewitched me I would have followed you halfway around the world, this is a childhood friend now having indecent relations with _your_ childhood friend, and also we’re stepping out to obscure the fact’ is never going to go completely well—but I suspect that any angst will be temporary and immediately forgotten once you get her into bed.” Ada paused for a moment. “You _are_ planning to get her into bed, aren’t you? It’s just that things will be rather more complicated if you’re not.”

This, at least, was familiar territory; Jack gave a small smile. “Likely not as complicated as the last time you meddled in my affairs.”

Rolling her shoulders in a shrug, Ada popped open her handbag and extracted a gasper. “You married the woman, Jack. What happened after that isn’t on me.”

She flicked on her lighter, and Jack looked at her firmly.

“Not in the house, you know I can’t stand the smell.”

Ada rolled her eyes and stood. “I thought that was Rosie’s quirk, not yours.”

“If you came by more often you’d know otherwise,” Jack said dryly, then glanced at his watch. “We’re going to be late.”

“Father won’t mind.”

“Yes, he will. I appreciate you sticking your neck out for me after… my recent performance—”

“As you should,” Ada said, eyes glinting.

Jack raised a chastising eyebrow, the reprimand all the more powerful for its implied nature; she met his gaze without flinching, well aware she had the upper hand in this particular conversation—Jack’s insistence on calling in favours and his preoccupation with the unofficial investigation had not endeared him to his superiors, even if he’d not actually broken any rules.

“I _am_ grateful, but if you don’t think I know when you’re full of shit—”

“Such language!”

“I’m fairly certain I learnt it from you. At least that’s what my mother always thought. I still can’t forget the taste of that soap.”

Ada chortled, then batted her eyelashes in his direction.

“I’m sure I’m innocent of all charges, officer.”

Picking up the fur stole from the back of the chair where Ada had draped it, Jack tossed it towards her.

“After a year with Miss Fisher flirting her way through my cases, you’ll have to do better than that,” he said.

Ada pouted as she adjusted her stole, then tilted her nose into the air.

“I believe you are escorting me to the police event of the season,” she said imperiously, then laughed. “What a lark! This really was a lovely bit of serendipity.”

“Is that what we’re calling it these days?” Jack asked. “And here I had settled for ‘mutually convenient, and also rather incestuous’.”

“It’s not my fault that the police family is rather… intimate, and I certainly wasn’t the one who decided to hire a gorgeous redhead for a coroner,” Ada protested, sighing with an excessive amount of dreaminess. “One of my father’s better ideas, I will admit.”

Jack rolled his eyes.

“I have a great deal of respect for Doctor MacMillan, and a healthy dose of fear. But I think we both know that my opinion on her relative attractiveness is entirely irrelevant.”

“Thankfully mine is not,” Ada said, striding across the room to take Jack’s arm. “Phryne seems much more your type regardless.”

It was an innocent comment, tossed casually into the conversation when Jack’s mind had caught up with recent developments but his heart was far more tender; he flinched. Ada paused, looking at him gently.

“You are alright, aren’t you?”

Jack shook his head, running a hand over his face.

“Never better,” he said, aware it was only half the truth.

———

It was odd to knock on her own front door, but given the household arsenal and the specific circumstances it was also advisable. She rapped on the wood and waited; after a moment, the door swung open to reveal Mr. Butler, exactly the same as she had left him.

“Miss Fisher,” he said, the only evidence of his surprise a rapid blink. “Shall I put the kettle on?”

This was familiar territory, and she smiled.

“Something stronger, perhaps,” she said, stepping through the door; it still smelled the same. “Although, given the telephone calls I will need to make, tea might be the better choice.”

“A combination then, miss?”

“Oh, I have missed your brilliance,” she trilled. “I’ll just run myself a bath and change out of these clothes, if you’d bring it up when it’s ready.”

“Of course.”

The man bowed slightly and moved towards the kitchen. Phryne headed for the stairs, pausing at the first step, her hand resting on the post.

“You don’t seem surprised by my arrival,” she said. “Did the inspector telephone?”

“No, miss,” said Mr. Butler, turning to look at her. “But it’s always good to have faith in people.”

They exchanged a small smile at that, then Mr. Butler retreated towards the kitchen to fetch the tea. Phryne mounted the stairs and headed into her boudoir, which was still made up as if expecting her arrival any moment; she swallowed hard at the sight, unaware how much she had missed the signs of home until she’d seen them again. She extracted the slightly battered swallow pin from her coat pocket, running her thumb over the finish; it had been one of the few things to survive the landing, a beloved talisman of home.

Setting it aside, she removed her blouse and jodhpurs and dropped them over the back of her vanity chair, then wrapped herself in a robe and moved to the lavatory to begin running a bath; the scent of lavender and steam had almost filled the room when there was a knock at the door, and when she opened it she found Mr. Butler with a heavily-laden tray.

“You are an angel incarnate,” she groaned, taking the food and drink. “How could you possibly assemble this with no forewarning?”

The man gave an enigmatic smile. “The grocer’s boy delivered today, miss, though I will need to arrange for more now that you are home. Will you be holding a party to mark your return?”

“I imagine I’ll have to, Mr. B,” she said, “but that can wait until tomorrow.”

“Very well,” he said, inclining his head slightly and turning to leave. He paused, and when he spoke there was a surprising amount of emotion in his voice. “I am very pleased that you’ve come home, miss.”

“Didn’t fancy finding a new employer, Mr. B?” she said as lightly as she could manage.

“I believe Mrs. Stanley planned to make an offer,” he replied.

Phryne laughed. “Then I’ll have saved you from a difficult dilemma.”

“I couldn’t say, miss.”

“With my aunt, you needn’t have to say a word,” Phryne said. “Her reputation precedes her like a tidal wave, and with the same subtlety.”

“She is… formidable,” agreed Mr. Butler. “But I believe she will welcome news of your arrival.”

The comment left a strange ache in Phryne’s chest, and she forced herself to smile.

“The inspector said the same thing,” she said, quieter than she’d intended.

“From Mrs. Stanley’s recounting, he was invaluable to her.”

“Recounting?” Phryne asked. “Did he not…”

She trailed off, realising that of course Jack had not been to Wardlow in the intervening months, though she had imagined him standing at the mantel at moments when her thoughts had turned homeward. Jack before the fire, quiet and steady; Mac in an armchair, sipping whiskey as she told Phryne about the latest autopsy; Dot knitting as Phryne read out the latest letter from Jane; Mr. Butler providing dinners and drinks as if by magic; Bert and Cec in the kitchen, squabbling over which footy team was having the better season. None of it would have been the same.

“I believe your absence rather preoccupied him,” Mr. Butler said. “Though Dorothy said he was always appreciative of the meals we sent to the station.”

“Of course. How thoughtless of me,” she said, subdued. “Thank you, Mr. Butler.”

The man nodded and turned off the taps to the bath, then said he would begin preparing a more substantial meal for when she was done. She thanked him again, and once the door was closed removed her robe and sank into the hot water. Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to think over the past few months—it had been, in some ways, rather thrilling; in other respects it had been exhausting. She had just slipped beneath the water when there was a sound outside the lavatory door, then a very firm knock.

“Miss! Miss!”

Phryne started, then smiled; trust Dot to uncover her return with speed.

“Come in, Dot,” she said. “The door’s unlocked.”

“It wouldn’t stop me if it wasn’t,” came a firm voice as the door in question swung open. Dot looked at her, clearly not quite believing whatever had brought her there, then rapidly crossed herself at the sight of Phryne.

“Mr. Butler brought biscuits,” Phryne said, gesturing to the tray. “No doubt you have questions. Pull up a stool and ask away.”

For the next twenty minutes or so Phryne told Dot how she’d found her way home—“I prayed, miss, every night,” Dot said adamantly. “Even when Doctor MacMillan came home and… well, it’s no matter. I prayed you’d come home safely.”—and Dot told Phryne about her marriage and the little cottage she and Hugh had made into a home—“It’s sounds perfectly lovely,” Phryne said, “and Hugh must be pleased he’s so close to the station.”—until the water had turned cold. Then Phryne, wrapped in a towel, and Dot, still chatting away, returned to the boudoir, falling into their old routines—Dot choosing an outfit for Phryne while Phryne attended to her toilette—with ease.

There was one person Dot seemed to avoid mentioning. Phryne didn’t notice at first, but even when Dot told Phryne how she’d helped Hugh with a robbery investigation there was no word of Jack Robinson. A slightly odd omission, but one that suited Phryne; it would take some time before she could think of his kisses without flushing, and there were some things she would rather keep for herself. And as he was, by necessity, currently absent… well, it was a mutually beneficial pretense.

Phryne was dried and dressed and about to head downstairs when Dot hesitated.

“I have the newspapers,” she said. “The ones covering your disappearance? I thought you might like to see them when you came home.”

The open faith on Dot’s face took her aback, and Phryne, touched though she was, quickly turned her attentions to the question at hand. The evening was difficult enough already.

“No doubt the press revelled in it,” Phryne said with a laugh, well aware a disappearance like hers would sell papers.

“They were very kind,” said her companion.

Probably because they feared the wrath of Prudence Stanley if they hadn’t been, but kind did not necessarily equate to truthful.

“Best if I do, Dot. It’s always wise to know what misinformation has been spread.”

Dot nodded, heading for the bedroom that had once been hers, and returned a moment later with a stack of articles.

“I think this is all of them,” she said.

Phryne quickly rifled through the pages—“ _The Honourable Missing Phryne Fisher_ ” cried one headline, “ _Aviation Mystery_!” another—and stopped at one near the bottom.

“This isn’t about my flight,” she said, examining the photo and accompanying caption critically.

Dot flushed and snatched the article back.

“Don’t you worry about that, miss,” she said. “If Inspector Robinson wanted to flit off with some pretty blonde woman the minute Doctor MacMillan came back from her search, you’re better off without him.”

“Dot, the inspector and I are friends,” she said, not wanting to delve further into that thought for the moment. “If he wants to take the Deputy Commissioner’s daughter to dinner, that’s his right. Even if the press did see fit to include it in their gossip column.”

Dot sniffed. “Say what you like, I think it’s shocking behaviour. He seemed so heartbroken one minute, working all hours from his office, then the next he was in all the papers stepping out with someone else.”

“Grief can do strange things,” Phryne suggested. “And he could hardly expect me to turn up months later.”

And clearly his feelings for her hadn’t changed in the slightest; no man could kiss like that without real emotion behind it, and his reluctance to leave her spoke volumes. Whatever was going on between Jack and Miss Rickman, Phryne was quite certain there was no danger in it.

“Still, miss, it hardly seems fair.”

“What, Dot? That a kind, noble man could find a woman?” Phryne asked, suspecting it was nothing of the sort; Dot was not a silly girl, but she could be stricken by grief. “Or is it that he continued to live, even when I was gone?”

Dot gave a small, sad smile.

“Both, perhaps, miss. But perhaps it’s best that you know now, so it’s not a surprise.”

“Perhaps,” Phryne said. “And perhaps we should put less faith in newspaper gossip and let Jack explain himself.”

Phryne could tell that Dot was still doubtful, but willing to see reason. Good. She’d hate for Jack’s visit the next morning to be spoiled by arsenic in the sugar or something. She was looking forward to resuming her investigations, but she’d rather have Jack as an ally than a victim.

Still holding the newspapers, Phryne headed downstairs. Dot followed, then went into the kitchen to speak with Mr. Butler while Phryne began to make telephone calls. Jane first, the matron of her boarding school in Sydney fetching her from the evening meal. At the sound of Phryne’s voice Jane began to cry in relief, then asked when she could return home; Phryne assured her that a train ticket would be arranged for that evening, or Phryne would drive up as soon as possible. Jane replied that she would take the train, and perhaps Doctor MacMillan would be able to travel with her—Mac was apparently in Sydney for an academic conference and had stopped by to check on Jane earlier in the week.

“I’ll see what I can arrange,” Phryne said, taking note of the hotel where Mac was staying.

She telephoned Aunt Prudence next, briefly explaining that she was home and she absolutely could not talk for long, as Jane required her to arrange for her travel home. Her aunt was suspiciously amenable, and Phryne promised to telephone again once she was free. Then she rang Mac’s hotel in Sydney, hoping her friend was available—by sheer luck Mac was dining in the hotel’s restaurant, and quickly came to the telephone.

“Phryne?”

“Hello, Mac.”

“Dear god, it _is_ you!”

“Alive and well,” Phryne reported with a small laugh, "and I've missed you terribly."

"How did... I spent weeks... damnit, Phryne," Mac said hoarsely, "I've missed you too."

It was not the time to dwell in sentiment—that would come later, in the privacy of Phryne's parlour with drinks—so Phryne launched into a brief explanation of the essentials.

Mac was silent for a moment, then sighed. “Have you spoken with Jack yet?”

“That’s not what I expected you to say,” Phryne said cautiously.

“If you haven’t, perhaps you should wait until tomorrow,” Mac suggested. “I believe he had police business this evening.”

Phryne felt her eyes narrow. “Since when do you keep track of Jack’s work schedule?”

“I don’t,” Mac replied.

“Then how do you know he had ‘police business’?”

Phryne could practically feel her best friend’s eyes roll through the telephone wires.

“Just trust me, Phryne. I can explain when I get home. Which, if I leave now, can be tomorrow afternoon. There’s a train at nine. I knew I should have driven up...”

“About your return….”

Arrangements were just settled for Mac and Jane’s return to Melbourne when there was a knock at the door; saying goodbye to Mac, Phryne quietly retreated to the parlour and waited for Mr. Butler to answer. It was possible that her return had been uncovered, and there were some people she’d rather not face before a good night’s sleep.

“Good evening, Mr. Butler,” came a rather insistent voice through the parlour door, and Phryne breathed a sigh of relief; it was just Aunt Prudence. Well, that would explain why she’d been so quick to accept Phryne hurrying her off the telephone.

The older woman entered the parlour, embracing Phryne and kissing her cheek, then puttering over to an armchair and settling in.

“I’ve sent a telegraph to your mother,” Prudence informed her. “And spoken with the government officials who arranged the search for you. Terrible job they did, even with myself and that inspector of yours…”

Phryne took a seat and allowed Aunt Prudence’s indignant tones wash over her; Prudence did not need an active audience to work herself up, so as long as Phryne nodded on occasion, she was quite content to hold court on any number of matters. By the time she was plotting welcome home parties, Phryne felt the need to intervene.

“That might be best to wait until I’ve been home long enough that it’s known I’m back from the dead.”

“Do not _joke_ , Phryne,” Aunt Prudence said, her distress palpable. “It was a horrible experience.”

“You’re right,” she conceded. “But I am tired and still have telephone calls to make.”

“It can wait for morning,” Aunt P agreed, standing up. “First thing.”

“Absolutely not, I’m exhausted. I will telephone you when I’ve risen,” Phryne countered, not mentioning that the telephone call would be after a fortifying breakfast and at least one conversation with Jack. And coffee. Quite a lot of coffee.

Prudence shook her head dismissively, but hugged Phryne once more. It was surprisingly strong, and Phryne thought there might very well be a few tears in her aunt’s eyes. Which put tears in Phryne’s eyes; she’d missed the woman. Missed everyone, really, and had not allowed herself to think how much.

“Thank you for coming,” Phryne said, and Aunt P gave her a soft smile.

“Any time, my girl. I’ll leave you to rest now.”

And with that, Aunt Prudence was gone. After nearly five months away, of the hope of her return propelling Phryne forward even as she tried to focus on the experience before her and not the life she had left behind, Phryne stood in the middle of her empty parlour, relieved to be home and oddly at a loss what to do now she was there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the actual prompt for this fic was: "Phryne arrives at Jack's door several months after her plane crashed." Who could resist a prompt like that? I honestly want like 23 versions of it--happy ones and sad ones and "It's been a year and Jack has done his best to find happiness in the aftermath, and her return throws that into jeopardy" and... It was a fantastic prompt. ♥


	3. Chapter Two: O Swallow Swallow

###  _Chapter Two: O swallow swallow_

If there wasn’t a good chance this dinner would be a step towards salvaging his precarious career, Jack Robinson would have walked out before the second course. But his grief had not gone as unnoticed by his superiors as he had first imagined, and he’d called in a stunning number of favours in the end, unwilling to leave a stone unturned; it had not been particularly well received. And so he found himself in a mansion in Hawthorn, rubbing elbows with men who were more politicians than policemen, and with as much sense. He was bored, irritated, and unable to tear his mind away from Phryne Fisher’s miraculous return. Which a small part of him still doubted, rationality be damned.

“Focus,” Ada hissed as she took his elbow, guiding him towards the room where after-dinner drinks were being held. “Another hour and we can beat a retreat.”

“No,” Jack said; there was no point in leaving, and he couldn’t bear the thought of facing a silent house. Not when he could picture Phryne inside, remember the sweetness of her breath and the way she’d kissed him, and knew that she was otherwise occupied that evening. At least at this dinner he had something to distract him from the madness and doubts of her return, from the inability to act… “No, I’ll stay.”

Ada gave him an exasperated glance.

“Just…” Jack hesitated, feeling like a lovestruck and insecure boy instead of the man he knew himself to be. “Are you certain she didn’t think….”

They’d rounded a corner, pulling into sight of other guests once more.

“Shut up, Robinson,” Ada said through a gritted smile. “I’m quite certain.”

“But—”

“The woman looked like she’d been kissed for Australia. Excellent call, by the way; she’s stunning.”

“She’s…”

Ada rolled her eyes.

“Yes, yes, you’re in love with her. I’m genuinely happy for you. And as soon as we’re done here I will drive you to her home and you can inform her of the fact. It will keep.”

Jack opened his mouth to protest, and Ada squeezed his arm and pulled him into a small alcove near the library doors.

“It will keep,” she promised, her tone soft and understanding. “She’s not going to disappear, and she’s not going to think that you’ve replaced her.”

The idea had taken root though, and Jack’s lips narrowed. He shouldn’t see her—she said she’d telephone him in the morning, and no doubt she had enough people…

“Jack,” Ada said. “Are you really that worried?”

He shook his head. “No, you’re right. It will be fine.”

“You always were a terrible liar,” Ada said, reaching up to set his bow tie slightly askew, her eyes suddenly determined; Jack couldn’t help but dread whatever came next. “You have a terrible migraine. Try to look peakish. I’ll tell father that I’m driving you home.”

“Ada, you don’t have to—”

“Of course I do, Jack. I’m sure a medicinal whiskey in the parlour of Miss Phryne Fisher will do wonders for your ailment.”

“I can’t just—”

“Robinson, this is not up for discussion. I will drop you off and then return home, where I will disentangle us so succinctly that your professional and personal reputations will escape without flaw, as will mine. I’ll take care of it. You have other things to concern yourself with.”

“Ada….”

This really was ridiculous; he wasn’t a child to be managed. She kissed his cheek, all teasing and brusqueness gone from her expression.

“You’ve helped Mac and me without a second thought, despite a devastating loss. You are one of the best men I know, Jack. Let me help you now.”

He nodded, dumbstruck at her uncharacteristic sincerity. Ada quickly headed into the library and reemerged a moment later, guiding Jack out the door and towards her motor car before he could mount a protest. Their drive to St. Kilda was silent, Jack still debating the wisdom of arriving without forewarning; when they stopped in front of Wardlow many of the windows were dark, but there were dim lights from the parlour and one of the rooms upstairs. He watched them for a moment, waiting for an indication.

“Go on,” Ada urged. “Mac will never forgive me if I keep you from her best friend.”

Jack chuckled, and squeezed his friend’s hand in gratitude. Then he exited the vehicle and walked up the once-familiar front path, heart thumping. The door opened at his knock, revealing Mr. Butler. It occurred to Jack that he’d not seen the man since the Collinses’ wedding, each of them left in their own spheres in the wake of Miss Fisher’s… absence. Even now it was easier not to think of it, so he didn’t.

“Inspector.”

Jack was fairly certain there was delight lurking behind the man’s practiced smile.

“Is Miss Fisher…?”

“I willl see if she’s available.”

“No need, Mr. B!”

She was standing in the door to the parlour, looking entirely at home and pleased to see him.

“The Rickmans lived next door until I was seven,” Jack blurted out.

Phryne laughed, tilting her head and gesturing him into the parlour. Mr. Butler took Jack’s hat and coat and shut the parlour doors behind them; Phryne stepped closer. With deft fingers she reached up and unknotted his bow tie, leaving it hanging loose around his neck.

“You’ll cause a scandal, looking like that,” she purred, trailing a hand down his chest before stepping away.

He swallowed hard and watched her move towards the drinks trolley.

“Whiskey?” she asked, uncapping the decanter and pouring two glasses without waiting for his reply. “Sit down, Jack.”

He shuffled towards the chaise, taking a seat and rubbing his hand against his knee nervously. Phryne sashayed over, lowering herself beside him and handing him a drink. She was in a green camisole and trousers and minimal cosmetics; the line of her clavicle was, at that moment in time, the most distracting thing he’d ever seen. He darted his eyes around the room instead.

“I thought you’d be…” he gestured to the empty parlour.

“Tomorrow,” Phryne said with a slight tilt of her head, a subdued smile on her lips. “Aunt P has been and gone, as has Dot. Wider celebrations can wait until tomorrow.”

“Ahh, of course, Miss Fisher,” he said, turning the tumbler in his hand. “Would you like me to—”

“No, stay,” she said hurriedly. There was a hesitance in her manner, as if she was concerned of overstepping; he found that whatever power had propelled him this far had abandoned him, and they both found themselves in this moment of inertia. Phryne was not the sort to wallow in such a state though, and she smirked coquettishly at him. “You were saying something about the lovely Miss Rickman?”

“Ahh, yes. She’s an old friend—not a... a friend from childhood, I meant.”

“And she’s re-entered your life at just this moment?” Phryne asked, as insatiably curious as ever. “She’s very beautiful.”

“She is. I mean—she’s not, not that…” he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “I’m aware that she’s attractive, I meant.”

“Attractive?” Phryne said, a slight coolness in her gaze now. He was blundering this _spectacularly_. “I wasn’t aware you found women _attractive_.”

“I don’t.”

“You don’t find women attractive?”

“I don’t—damnit, Phryne, you know what I mean! Ada is a friend. Or a force of nature, I’m not entirely sure which. But I don’t feel… that way. About her. I don’t feel that way about her.”

“Do you regularly take attractive women you are not attracted to out for professional obligations, then?” she asked. “It’s a wonder you never asked me.”

“That’s different,” he argued.

“Because I’m not the sort of attractive woman one brings to these things?”

“What? No! I—”

Phryne began to laugh, so much genuine delight in her expression that Jack’s heart constricted.

“Relax, Jack. I’ve spoken with Mac. She’s explained the whole situation—well, not really. But she hinted at enough that I was able to draw my own conclusions. Dot will be very relieved that you aren’t abandoning me for political expediency. I take it Ada’s inclinations are…”

“Towards a certain doctor of our mutual acquaintance,” Jack confirmed.

“Perhaps it’s best if we start at the beginning then,” Phryne said.

Jack nodded, leaning back into the chaise.

“As I said, the Rickmans lived next door when I was younger. Her father was a police officer, and Ada was the youngest of five children. She used to drag me into all sorts of scrapes,” Jack smiled at the memory. “My mother was immensely relieved when Fred Rickman was promoted to inspector and moved the whole family.”

“You do have a propensity for troublesome women,” Phryne remarked.

“Strong,” Jack corrected, then smirked. “Though some of them are quite a bit of trouble.”

She raised her glass to toast the sentiment, and Jack continued.

“Fred Rickman rose up the ranks—he’s now deputy commissioner, and while we’re not close, he’s the man who pushed through Collins’s promotion—and Ada has blown in and out of my life half a dozen times in the intervening years. Imagine my surprise when her latest reappearance was at the morgue, in very close proximity to my coroner.”

“Mac’s usually far more subtle than that,” Phryne said in surprise.

Jack didn’t have the heart to explain that Ada had been providing comfort to a grieving Mac, so he shrugged instead.

“Perhaps your powers of observation gave me an unfair advantage,” he said. “Either way, once explanations were had, it became clear that Fred Rickman was having one of his ‘Who will look after you when I’m gone? You really ought to marry’ moments; Ada tends to step out with a man for a few months and then call it off once her father’s concerns have abated, but he was particularly persistent this time.”

“Are you intending to marry her?” Phryne asked. “I can see where it would be advantageous for you both.”

The immensity of such a leap surprised him.

“What? No. No. Not even when—” he shook his head. “No, if I were to ever remarry—and I don’t have any plans to—it would be… real.”

She looked vaguely unsettled at this declaration, and Jack quickly moved the conversation along.

“We’d planned to step out for as long as necessary. Spending time together was no hardship, and given my own connection with Doctor MacMillan I could feasibly arrange… well, if I invited Doctor MacMillan to the theatre with Miss Rickman and me, and then I was forced to bow out due to work commitments, nobody would question that, now would they?”

Phryne glanced away, and Jack was concerned he’d done something wrong. But when she turned back there were tears in her eyes and a smile on her lips.

“You really do continue to surprise me,” she said. “Will my return complicate—”

“No.”

She arched an eyebrow.

“You seem quite certain. I can be very complicating.”

“I didn’t ask for specifics, but Ada assured me that it would be sorted before news of your return became widespread,” Jack said. “Without blame laid on either one of us. She’s remarkably adept at spinning the truth to her advantage.”

“And, for the purposes of the gossips, resuming _this_ ,” she gestured between them, “immediately won’t harm your reputation?”

It wouldn’t stop him if it did, but he had a feeling that was not a sentiment she was ready to hear. He drained his glass instead, raising the tumbler to examine it.

“You’re right,” he said. “Empty glasses give people all sorts of reasons to speculate.”

She tilted her head as she smiled.

“Well, we can’t be having that, Jack,” she purred, her fingers brushing against his as she took the glass. “Clearly it’s time for another drink.”

———

They talked for several hours, bodies angled together on the chaise, knees and hands brushing constantly, the contact so natural Phryne barely noticed. She told him of her journey, of the small village where she’d stayed for those interminable months, her clashes with the missionaries—the only other English speakers—and her attempts to learn the language of the natives, of her growing impatience as she awaited rescue. He spoke of cases that had crossed his desk, of the coordinated efforts to search for her—“A more formidable group of women has rarely been seen,” he said fondly and she loved him for it—of his friendship with Ada and the absurd situation they had found themselves in. The deeper repercussions of her time away were left unexamined, neatly sidestepped in their quest for familiarity; she’d forgotten, in some ways, the quirks that made Jack such a compelling conversationalist, the way he could listen and ruminate and surprise her with the speed of his mind beneath the facade. Eventually she yawned, and he set his whiskey glass aside.

“You must be exhausted,” he said.

She stretched her arms above her head, noticing the appreciative way his eyes dropped down her body before meeting her gaze again. The immensity of asking him to stay the night kept her from remarking on it. She took his hand in hers instead, tracing the veins and tendons with great care; after a moment he turned his wrist, lacing his fingers through hers.

She stood, tugging gently at their joined hands, and led him from the parlor and towards the boudoir; she paused several times to turn towards him as they ascended the stairs, kiss him softly, read the simmering emotions in his eyes. When they crossed the threshold he breathed deeply, the slightest tremor in his hands as he reached up to brush her cheek.

"Phryne?"

His voice was hesitant, questioning; she wasn't entirely certain what it was he asked, but she knew the answer. She turned her cheek to press a kiss against his palm.

" _Yes_."

They undressed slowly, touching every inch of exposed skin with fingers, teeth, tongues, smiling at each newly discovered sweet spot. He traced the underside of her breast and she moaned, dropping her head backward. He moved to caress the other one, but his fingertips lingered in the valley of her breasts, an inscrutable look on his face. Her heartbeat, she realised; she wondered if he felt the thud at the thought. He seemed transfixed, and she gave a low hum to bring him back into the room.

"Darling," she said; he started, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth at the endearment. Dear, dear man. "Darling, I appreciate your reverence, but perhaps you could...?" an arched eyebrow and a smile of her own completed the thought, and he chuckled.

He dipped his head to take the nipple in his mouth, his calloused hand cupping her breast with so much confidence that she whimpered; a careful application of teeth and tongue caused her to gasp, the sensation delightfully electric; she scraped her nails against the skin of his shoulder blade, laughing as it made him shiver beneath her hands. In response he grasped her hips, twirling her around and pressing himself against her back. Some vague part of her realised that he was still wearing his trunks, the soft cotton giving some friction between his erection and the small of her back; she closed her eyes and melted into his embrace.

By the time he'd guided her to the bed, knuckles grazing against her thighs and the curve of his grin searing against the skin of her neck, she was shaking.

"Good?" he asked against her ear, his warm breath dizzying.

"Good," she confirmed, reaching behind her to cup his head. She turned, intending to kiss him again; she paused instead, awestruck by the sight of his face in the lamplight. The scorching heat in his eyes, the cleft of his chin, the small upturn of his nose; longed-for and half-forgotten in her time away, but unchanging.

His touch—a single finger traced over her clit—sent a shock through her, and he smirked into her gasp, his tongue sweeping against her lips. The confidence of his movements was very appealing, the surety thrilling; she lowered herself onto the bed, expecting him to keep kissing, to join her, his body atop hers; instead he smiled again and urged her legs apart, dropping to his knees. That _was_ a promising development.

The first moment of his mouth against her cunt nearly levitated her off the bed, her moan of need punctuated by the grasping of his hair. He softened his touch in response, gently exploring her, responding to her sighs of pleasure, building her up until the ache of desire became pulsing, until all she could feel was his hair against her palms and the silk sheets against her back and the exquisite tension. He slipped one finger and then another inside her, giving them an experimental motion that had her gasping and thrashing and so damn close to careening over the edge into oblivion that she tightened her hold on him.

"Jack—”

Another press of his fingers inside her and she squeezed her eyes tighter, the agony almost too much to bear, the promise of climax almost enough to drive everything else from her mind; his fingers began to withdraw and she managed some rumbled, incoherent protest until she realised he was simply adding another finger. She knew the stretch would be enough, would give her the sort of release that left her exhausted and aching and sated; she wanted it, was almost consumed by the desperate relief orgasm would bring, could feel it in the shaking of her thighs and the clenching waves between them and the straining muscles, and yet—

"Wait!"

It was her voice, she realised; he paused—of course he did—and pulled away, the absence of his touch sending a clenching ripple through her and she bit her lip to stifle her groan. She needed—she needed words, sentences, her tongue tangling onto itself as she tried to speak; giving up, she pulled him towards her mouth, the accidental brush of his body against hers like sparks on dry kindling, the smoldering pleasure still seconds from ignition.

"Phryne?" he asked, eyes deeply concerned.

"Good," she panted, not quite in control of herself yet. "So good, Jack. Just..." she swallowed against the lump in her throat, "Just intense."

His mouth opened slightly—surprise, she thought—and she traced the shell of his ear with one finger.

"Not that I don't approve of intense," she continued, her usual teasing tone only slightly undermined by her breathlessness, "and we are definitely revisiting the possibility later—" he huffed a laugh at that and Phryne grinned. "But I want... I want to do this together, and preferably without me left utterly incoherent afterward."

He laughed again.

"Alright then," he said, always ready to follow her lead. "How do you suggest...?"

She encouraged him up to lie beside her, divesting him of his trunks as he rose; her hands ran over the firmness of his ass, feeling the muscles move beneath her palms. When he lay beside her, she slid one hand around to stroke his straining cock and buried her face against his neck, kissing it softly; his pulse was thudding wildly despite his calm exterior, and it made her ache. She wanted this, wanted him, so much. Had been so close to losing it. And now they were here, in her bed, in her home, naked and longing and ready.

"You'll love this," she promised throatily. "It's slow,” a nip against his shoulder, “and close,” she smirked, pulling back to meet his eyes, “and definitely not a waltz."

She hooked her leg over his, drawing him closer and kissing him softly as she guided him deep inside.

———

The sight of a freshly fucked Phryne Fisher—skin flushed, mouth parted, hair in disarray—was more than Jack had ever dreamt. He watched her for some time, until she rolled over to face him, head propped on one hand.

“Something you’d like to say, Jack?”

“You’re…” _Alive. Here. Quite possibly going to be the ultimate cause of my demise._ He coughed to clear his throat. “You’re marvelous, Miss Fisher.”

She gave a coy smile and reached out to brush a lock of hair from his forehead, making a pleased little hum. He ran a hand down and back up her arm in response, amused to see he left a trail of gooseflesh in his wake. His power was short lived; she smiled wider and rolled out of bed, selecting a robe from her wardrobe—silver and flowing, with a deep V in the back that was doing remarkable things to Jack’s libido—and heading behind the dressing screen. There were some quiet splashes of water, and a few minutes later she reemerged, looking both refreshed and sleepy; she crawled into the bed, still wrapped in her robe, and laid her head against his chest.

Her breathing evened out; Jack watched the rise and fall of her chest, felt her pulse against his skin, caressed her hair, pressed his lips to the top of her head, held her in a way he’d imagined a hundred times and never actually done. When he thought her asleep, he traced the lines of her face, down her neck, found himself inexorably drawn towards her heartbeat once more.

“It’s yours.”

Her voice was sleepy but certain, her fingers flexing against his chest.

“Hmm?”

“My heart. It’s yours.”

He was quiet for a moment, tilting his head as he considered her words. The silence lasted too long, because her eyes opened and she turned her face up to look at him, worry knitting her brow together.

“Jack?”

“I’d rather you kept it,” he said, tapping a finger against her chest. “What would I do with it? Put it in a jar upon the shelf, to be admired from afar? It’s much more useful keeping you alive.”

Phryne rolled her eyes, an affectionate smile on her bare lips.

“That’s not at all what I meant and you know it,” she said. “And besides, I like pretty things. A jar might be a little utilitarian, but…” she moved up, brushing a soft kiss against his lips and nudging his nose with hers. “I think it has potential.”

“Phryne….”

He wasn’t entirely certain what he was protesting—she’d entwined a leg around his, her body pressed against his side, her hand on his cheek; it was the closest he’d felt to true contentment in some time.

“You don’t have to return the sentiment,” Phryne said; her voice was surprisingly small, but still strong. Even at her most vulnerable she was fierce.

“That’s not—”

“When the storm came,” she said, ignoring his protest, “I was over open water and there was almost no warning. But there was some. I turned off my flight path, hoping I could outrun it, or at least find a place to take her down. I made it a good distance—I can only presume that’s why the search parties found nothing—but it was close, Jack. And for the first time in years I thought… I thought that if I was going to die, I had regrets. Regrets are unacceptable, Jack, especially things I could have done. The idea that I had never told you how I felt…”

“You did,” he said, feeling a small smile tug at his mouth as he looked at her. “You told me to come after you.”

“I also told you there was a whole world out there,” she laughed. “There are many ways to interpret that, some of them cruel.”

“But _you_ aren’t. I knew what you meant.”

“Which is reassuring now, but at the time…” she trailed off, her smile sincere but tremulous, then—never being one to linger over agonies—set her mouth in determination. “Still, I made it. There was no way the plane would fly again, but the missionaries further down the island saw me land and took me in. It wasn’t without complications, but at least I knew I was alive, that it was simply a matter of time before I would make it home,” her expression grew sad, and she kissed him again. “It must have been difficult from the other side.”

“Unbearable,” Jack said, honesty drawn from him despite his best intentions. “For everyone.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

“But I _am_ ,” she insisted. “I never would have gone out that day if I’d known.”

“You didn’t know, though, and I hardly expect you to apologise for the whims of the weather,” he said, his voice catching slightly; he’d thought about it often, and the reminder was not pleasant.

“Was it that bad?” she asked.

He shrugged, attempting to appear nonchalant.

“Jack.”

“You were gone and I had... nothing. My constabulary authority didn't extend that far, I had no right to information, no position in your life—there was nothing to do but wait in my office for news that never came," he admitted. “But I never… I never wished you hadn’t—” he swallowed hard against his tears, absurd though they were; she was home, and alive, and apparently loved him. “I missed you... God, I missed you so much. But to wish you hadn’t been there? It felt like wishing you were someone other than who you are. Your memory deserved better than that.”

“Jack Robinson, you are…” she shook her head and laughed, “remarkably good at rendering me speechless today.”

He wrapped his arms around her waist, drawing her closer.

“In more ways than one,” he agreed, unable to completely hide the cocky smile he felt.

She arched an eyebrow and took it as encouragement to kiss him, her mouth fervent and unforgiving. She kissed with the same vivacity with which she lived, the same kaleidoscope of contradictions in her touch. Eventually she paused, pulling away just enough that her lips still brushed his when she spoke.

“Ass,” she murmured.

“I love you,” he replied, raising his chin just enough to kiss her again; the effect was rather ruined by their tandem attempts to stifle yawns, however, and they ended up laughing instead.

“Sleep,” Phryne said, pulling away to rest her head against his chest once more; the naturalness of such a gesture did not go unmarked. Jack glanced down just as her lips twitched. “You can make me scream in the morning.”

———

If there was anywhere more comfortable than her own bed after months away, Phryne Fisher had not found it. And the company… well, the company was fast asleep and utterly beautiful. She had expected him to be a light sleeper—perhaps he was, under other circumstances, but at the moment he was in a deep and well-deserved slumber. She found herself reaching out to touch him—a finger trailed across bruises and scratches she’d left behind, a kiss to that irresistible hollow of his neck that she’d used to fuel at least seventeen separate fantasies in her time away, a flutter of eyelashes against his cheek. Tangible reminders that he was there, that he had come to her the night before, his presence both unexpected and right.

Phryne stretched, her muscles still aching pleasantly, and contemplated a bath. From downstairs she could hear the beginning of the household stirring—Mr. Butler making breakfast and what was no doubt the arrival of Dot, the sounds of deliveries and motor cars on the street—and decided that a bath could wait. It might even be possible to persuade Jack to join her. She burrowed further beneath the doona and smiled.

Some time later there was a knock at the front door, and Phryne sighed. There would be some downsides to her return, and the inevitable parade of visitors when she’d rather see her nearest and dearest before facing wider society was amongst them. Still, Mr. Butler might very well send whoever it was away. Or she could fake a hideous malady that required she recuperate in bed for a few days; perhaps Jack would be amenable to providing some home remedies. It was a rather marvelous plan.

Unfortunately for Phryne, it was a plan she did not have a chance to execute. Instead of the gentle footsteps of Mr. Butler coming to inquire whether she was up for visitors, she heard what appeared to be the footfalls of a small elephant approaching the boudoir. Phryne only recognised their source a moment before Prudence Stanley swung open the bedroom door, already mid-lecture.

“Phryne, dear girl, I’ve been on the telephone for hours, spreading the news of your return, and you’re still—”

Her mouth flapped open and shut in silent indignity at the sight of Jack. Phryne looked at her levelly, keeping eye contact even as her aunt drew herself to full height in preparation of a lecture—Aunt Prudence’s opinions on Phryne’s life had never been solicited, but her aunt was a generous woman. Despite their differences, Phryne did not wish to antagonise her aunt, especially so soon after her return; she was not, however, prepared to entertain a single bad word about Jack.

“Aunt Prudence!” Phryne said, aiming for both innocent and firm. “Shall we head downstairs? Allow Jack here to sleep awhile longer. Poor man is undoubtedly exhausted.”

Prudence had clearly noticed that Jack was not only asleep in Phryne’s bed, but also that he was nude; she had focused on a point on the opposite wall. Shame, Phryne thought; she was missing the most attractive thing in the room.

“That might be best, dear. I’ll have Mr. Butler arrange breakfast, shall I?”

Well, that was a surprise. Phryne felt her defensive instincts soften.

“Yes, please, Aunt P. And I _am_ glad to see you, even if it is in a state of dishevelment.”

Her aunt nodded. “I had wondered why he was not here last night.”

“Does that mean you approve?”

“You’ve never desired my approval before, Phryne,” she said, a trace of affection in her tone. “But I think there are far worse connections to be made. Do try not to wreak havoc on his reputation. He was… eminently helpful to me, these past few months.”

Phryne reached out to touch his arm, smiling softly.

“I’ll be down in five minutes, Aunt Prudence. No doubt half of Melbourne society is aware of my return.”

Aunt P sniffed. “Half? If news of your return hasn’t reached the wilds of Canberra by now I will be terribly disappointed.”

“Either way,” Phryne laughed, “I can only presume that there will be parties for weeks. Probably best to get started now.”

Huffing in agreement, the older woman bustled away. Phryne dropped back against her pillows, smiling slightly as she stared at the ceiling. One hurdle neatly jumped.

Phryne pushed the doona back, ready to climb out; beside her Jack made a grumble in protest, reaching out to her and mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like ‘Don’t leave me.’ Tenderness flooded her chest, and she pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“I don’t intend to,” she promised. “But I have guests.”

“Mmm, ignore them,” he suggested, eyes still closed but a smile lingering at the corners of his lips; a luxuriating Jack Robinson was quite a sight to see.

“Would that I could, Jack, but it’s Aunt Prudence,” she explained, toying with his hair. “You could join us.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” he said.

She looked at him for a moment, trying to decide whether he sincerely thought he would be unwelcome or he was just attempting to avoid her aunt. Unable to be certain, she opted for sincerity.

“Jack, you are… one of the most important people in my life. When I called you an unsung hero all those months ago, I wasn’t being flippant. And then I came home and I found that you… you might not have orchestrated my rescue, but…” she swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat, “you did everything in your power, not just to find me but to care for the people I love. I don’t think you appreciate how rare that is.”

“Phryne…”

Her name was a plea on his lips, his eyes still closed as if he was afraid of what he would see when he opened them.

“There are few enough people in my life that could manage such a thing, and even fewer who would. You are one of the reasons that I had a home to come back to, Jack, and I won’t hear a word of your self-recrimination. Joining me, especially when I have invited you, is not infringing, it’s expected,” she said; his eyes opened, surprise and affection mingled, and she grinned. “Besides, Aunt Prudence already knows you’re here. I think she gave you her approval.”

He groaned and closed his eyes once more.

“It occurs to me that the only thing I have are my clothes from last night,” he said. “I could just about face your aunt, knowing that she knows that I spent the night in your bed, but sartorial evidence might be where I draw the line.”

“That’s… understandable, I suppose,” Phryne said, bouncing out of bed herself. “I suppose you could stay here and I can entertain myself during her duller moments with the thought of you naked upstairs.”

He actually rolled over and buried his face in the pillow before raising his head just enough to say, “That’s not any better, is it?”

“Well, that’s a matter of perspective,” Phryne said, heading towards the wardrobe to find something suitable. “I’m quite fond of the idea myself.”

Just then there was a knock at the door, and Mr. Butler entered carrying a parcel wrapped in brown paper.

“Pardon me, miss,” he said, “but a Miss Rickman dropped this package off for the inspector earlier this morning. I thought he might require it before joining the company downstairs.”

Phryne glanced over her shoulder, trying not to laugh at Jack’s horror-struck face. Really, he would just have to get used to it. He managed to cough and thank Mr. Butler as he took the package, opening the attached envelope first. His brow furrowed in confusion as he read the note, then he unwrapped the package—a change of clothes, more casual than his suits. Clothes one would wear for a relaxing day at home. Phryne’s opinion of Ada Rickman went up once again. Poor Jack still looked befuddled, holding up the green jumper.

“What is it?” she asked.

Jack nodded towards the note, silently giving her permission to read it. Picking it up, Phryne read it, twice, then laughed.

_Robinson—_

_Thought you might require these, old bean. If your Miss Fisher can tolerate the jumper, she really must love you. Or suffer a dreadful affliction of sight. Have spoken with Mac—says she and Miss Fisher’s ward will arrive on the train from Sydney this afternoon, and I’ve agreed to pick them up at the station. Do try to be presentable by then._

_Affectionately,_

_Ada_

“What’s wrong with my jumper?”

If she didn’t know better, she’d swear the man was pouting.

“It’s rather… garish, darling,” Phryne said apologetically. “And the fit is terrible. But it will do until you can head home for a change in wardrobe. Or you could embrace public nudity.”

Jack looked at her, unamused, then reached out to catch her wrist and pull her towards him.

“You’ve been back in the country, what, Miss Fisher? Eighteen hours?” he asked, tugging her onto his lap and burying his face against her neck. “And you’re already trying to corrupt an officer of the law?”

“Mmm,” she hummed, rolling her neck to give him better access; he trailed kisses along the column and she shivered. “After last night, I believe I already succeeded.”

“I didn’t stand a chance,” he agreed. “And once we’re through with your aunt, you can do it again.”

Phryne laughed, twirling a lock of his hair around her finger. “And again and again and again….”

He groaned, the noise so deep that she actually felt its echoes in her own body.

“How quickly can we get rid of her?”

“Jack!” Phryne exclaimed, aiming for scandalised but ending firmly at pleased. “That poor woman is dealing with quite a shock, and the only remedy is to plan more high society parties than even I can fathom.” She kissed him quickly. “And you, you lucky man, get to come with me to them all.”

He rolled his eyes and released his hold, sighing a little too heavily to be sincere.

“I suppose I need to get dressed then,” he said.

“Well, it _is_ optional,” she replied, standing. “But probably advised.”

She did _try_ not to ogle him as he quickly dressed, but there were only so many corners to stare at and the movement was very distracting. When he was dressed he moved towards her vanity, running his fingers through his hair as if to tame it, then paused. A thousand emotions seemed to cross his usually still face at once, and she was concerned until he reached out to touch something on the table. Her swallow brooch.

She crossed the room, coming up behind him and laying her hand on top of his.

“It made it back,” she said quietly, pressing a soft kiss against his shoulder. “We both did. We’re home.”

He picked up the brooch and turned, catching her head with his free hand and drawing her close for another kiss. When he pulled away he paused, holding the brooch for another moment before moving to pin it on her once more. The pin was slightly bent and she’d need to take it to a jeweller, but his careful movements secured it to her blouse. The tenderness filled her chest with warmth, and she pulled him close for another kiss.

“You know,” she said, smirking slightly as she pulled back. “Aunt Prudence knows how long it takes me dress. She won’t be expecting me for at least another five minutes.”

He grinned. “A great deal of corruption can happen in five minutes.”

“Oh darling, you have no idea,” she laughed. “But you will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After months of struggling with this fic, I am suddenly struck with about twenty things I want to see explored in the aftermath. Which I credit solely to you amazing readers, and I might even write one or two of them. But thank you--your lovely words mean more than you can know. ♥


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